Stunned
by DaftPenguinofDoom
Summary: He'd been there hours and hours. A one shot return to fan fiction writing after months of absence. Serious. Fluff. MMAD.


He'd been there for hours and hours.

Still no change and no sign of improvement. She looked dead. Her breath was the only real sign that she was indeed alive and that was shallow and her chest didn't move with each breath as it was supposed to. They had had to force her eyes shut so she wouldn't be blind when she awoke so her eyes didn't even look peaceful. And her face wore the same expression it had when it had happened, furious and flustered.

Her hair shined even in the glow of the artificial light of the hospital. It was the only thing besides her clothes that was changed about her. It shimmered black. It was soft and smooth as he stroked it and marked how many coarse grey hairs had wheedled their way in over the past few years. What was once jet black now had strokes of charcoal and silver, but it was still beautiful and calm after being gently combed through.

He hadn't been able to spend much time with her over the past few months. He determined to make it up to her but she didn't really know he was there. How could she? Still. He hoped that perhaps she'd be able to sense his presence somehow. She always seemed to sense him whenever he was in her vicinity, like when he walked into her classroom or even a crowded room, she could always tell he was there somehow. Not… not this time though.

Time ticked slowly away, minute by hour. He looked at his watch of whirling planets and the clock on the wall.

The open door startled him, but she didn't move.

"Sir, I…" came an apologetic voice, "Sir, she needs her treatment now… would you like to be here or…"

"No, I'll be in the waiting room if she… wakes up…" he said wearily rising. He looked at her and shuddered involuntarily. He'd been there last time. It looked painful. They had… he didn't want to remember. They assured him she couldn't feel it, the "treatment", but if she could… Perhaps the cure was worse than the disease. Only it wasn't a disease.

He sat in the waiting room. It was eerily quiet as waiting rooms can be at times. He fiddled with his watch again, watching the planets spin and slipping the chain again and again through his fingers. He looked up when a healer walked into the room. Alas, it was not her healer, but the healer had a curious pained look on his face. He realized that look at once. He watched as the healer walked nervously and cautiously across the room and addressed the family on the far side of the room.

He couldn't hear what the healer had said, but he knew what he had said. The worried look in the woman's eyes turned to a look of disbelieving sorrow. The shocked look, the familiar gulp, the tears that slowly formed in the corners of the eyes that burst into deep heavy sobs as the healer departed, all too familiar to him. He'd seen them before many a time and dreaded it in his heart should he see the healer come towards him with such a look. His heart wept for the family as they did their own weeping, the man throwing his arms around his sobbing wife and shedding tears himself as the children, unsure of what to do, sat silently with empty concerned stares.

He rose. He could not take the torture anymore. He stood up and shoved his hands deep into his robes and walked towards her room. He leaned against the wall outside her room. Soon a healer emerged.

"Good news, sir. We think perhaps she may be reacting to the treatment, not a good reaction perhaps, but then again any reaction in such cases is a good reaction," he said smiling.

He remembered this healer he thought to himself. Slythrin. The junior healers emerged carrying bags filled with medical equipment. The healer patted him on the back and went on to some other call of duty.

Indeed, he thought to himself as he entered the room, she had indeed reacted to the "treatment". A sheen of sweat had broken out over her forehead. Another junior healer came in.

"Oh! Sir, would you like me to change her into another nightgown or would you like to do it yourself?" she asked timidly.

"I'll do it myself," he responded taking the flannel nightdress from her. She nodded and departed.

He pulled back the covers and slowly pulled off her nightgown. It was damp. There in the centre of her chest, a spidery scab had formed where they had struck her. His fingers floated over the scab before he carefully began to pull on her fresh nightgown. Although it was flannel, it was still a hospital issued and thus had no back. He tucked the sides of the gown carefully under her and replaced the covers.

He fell asleep in the chair beside her.

He'd been there for hours and hours.

"Sir, she needs her treatment now," came the same timid voice.

"I'll be in the waiting room," he said rising.

He sat in the waiting room alone this time.

He thought he heard a whisper. Albus. A gentle breeze passed his ear. He straightened in a sudden realization.

"No!" He thought, "No! She's leaving! You can't leave! Darling! Hold on! Darling, please!"

He buried his face in his hands, "Please Minerva," he sobbed.

Her eyes snapped open suddenly as pain surged through her body. Bodies. Faces hovered over her. She screamed. He snapped up.

"_ALBUS!_"

His name. Could it be?

"_ALBUS!_"

He was sure he'd heard it that time. He heard her scream again and jumped up. And walked if not ran to her room.

"Ms. McGonagall, please! We need you to…"

But she was inconsolable. As soon as his face appeared in the doorway she threw open her arms. He ran to them.

"Darling, oh my darling," he sobbed as he held her.

She kissed him over and over.

He'd been there for hours and hours.


End file.
